Chapter 602: Mirror-of-the-Sky Blood (6)

The moment the door opened (well—came off), a loud, ragged wheeze echoed clear.

Reason: right past the entry—whether you’d call this a “sitting room” or not—an entire family lay on a carpet under a heavy quilt.

Unless you’re in a tent, people don’t sleep facing the front door of a building.

It’s drafty or stifling, bad for sound, and, more than anything, humans instinctively sleep where it feels safe.

So why here?

Because they must have given the bedroom to an honored guest.

Once the party had stepped in, Qing slid a wedge-nail in, rehung the door, shut it neatly, and went inside.

A carpenter who also happens to be a master can pull off such arts.

Qing raised one finger to her lips, then cocked her wrist to point at the floor at their feet, and finally at the sleeping family.

Quiet—here—watch them.

Her finger flicked; Pohee followed.

The Lama Monk holding the master room might be a master or might not; if he hadn’t learned true stealth, he could wake at a stir.

But Qing had a stealth reserve ready.

In the list that bastard from the Yeom shop gave of Pohee’s martial repertoire was a mind-method from Black Shadow Sleeping that smothers presence.

Thus the two shadows slid into the bedroom without a sound.

One Lama Monk lay there, planted in the bed.

Qing was about to shatter his core at once—then thought: we don’t yet have an absolutely clear proof he’s one of the killers.

Even if the conviction’s certain, we should confirm.

“Excuse me, monk?”

“—Hk!”

Being a martial man of sorts, he snapped his eyes open the instant she spoke and jerked upright.

Someone had called from above his head while he slept alone.

Allowing an approach in a state of total defenselessness—there’s nothing more stomach-dropping for a martial artist.

And it got dizzier when he saw the killer standing on the bed with a blade draped over her shoulder.

“[Who are you?]”

Qing stared, eyes hard, briefly choosing her words.

Since he was already suppressed, letting time drag here would only tighten the pressure.

But what to ask?

If I say, “Why did you kill the plateau folk?” and he says no, where do I go?

Then say it like I already know.

If he’s truly wronged, the flavor of it will show; if not, he’ll think I came knowing everything.

“[A father’s revenge. Chaka Village.]”

“[Chaka Village? I don’t know what you mean. What nonsense are you babbling?]”

“[For a supposed man of the Buddha, your fear of death has you spitting lies. I watched with these two eyes. Do you have any excuse?]”

“[Ahem. There seems a misunderstanding. I’ll pardon your present rudeness, so put the blade away. ‘Chaka Village,’ you say—did some misfortune occur there? I will hear you, so put aside your anger.]”

“[Certain? You swear Chaka Village’s massacre has nothing to do with you? Can you swear by your sect and the Buddha?]”

“[I can. I swear.]”

A vow without the least hesitation.

Qing drew the blade back.

And at once—crack!—a palm shot for her.

Good strategy—on paper.

If they were thieves babbling Tobon-this and up to outright banditry, what’s to stop them from hawking Buddha and their sect as well?

The blade at his throat was a feint.

Qing’s true killer wasn’t steel but foot—her rear foot, stretched back, center emptied, primed to lance out any time.

Before the monk’s energy could surge—shraaaak, a vicious tearing wind.

Hard to believe the sound came from a foot whipping out.

The toe of Qing’s shoe sank in below his navel, burying almost to the ball.

That savage true-energy roared, smashing his core to gravel; Qing’s lip curled up slow.

Ahh—clean through, like punching open the sky.

You son of a bitch. You sell your sect and the Buddha and call yourself a Buddhist?

“Ng—!”

His reaching palm raked nothing, his mouth—about to scream—was clamped shut by Gyeon Pohee’s brutal hand.

Blood streamed along Pohee’s fingers—well, his core had shattered.

Whether from choking or the gagged man’s reflex, the monk’s arms slapped and clawed at Pohee’s forearm in a fit.

But so what—his core was broken.

Even if he flailed, he was a late-stage not-quite-super-transcendent at best.

Qing seized his forearm—crunch.

If only one side breaks, that might feel unfair; crunch the other as well.

Because balance matters.

A strangled howl quivered and died in his sealed mouth.

Qing’s foot settled lightly on his shin.

Her step sank the mattress in an instant.

Crack—the shin snapped; his sole shot up toward the ceiling.

His eyes rolled white.

But only for a breath.

On the other shin, Qing gifted him, by hand—no, by foot—a reverse joint; he bucked and flopped for joy so hard you’d think he’d won a prize.

His lost arms flapped, the pulped forearms wagged—a sight that brought to mind those air-dancing dolls from back home.

Ah, those existed.

“Mmmph!!”

Even if the gag stifled his scream, noise still leaked—and outside, a shrill, tearing cry, then a rough shout—Who are you!

The bedroom door flew open; a man rushed in.

Seeing the monk thrashing with limbs crushed, he collapsed to his rump.

Qing—bong—rang the temple bell and spoke gently.

“[Don’t worry. This bastard isn’t a monk; he’s a murderer who killed people and fled. He is a horrible demon who targets only good Buddhist laity who offer lodging and kills them. You nearly suffered great harm.]”

“[R—really!?]”

“[Before long, what they’ve done will be known here as well. Already known, they’ve massacred three hamlets and gnawed the flesh—man-eaters.]”

“[T—these heaven-cursed dogs! To dare pose as monks! How could they!]”

Huh. That worked?

Qing had only said what came to her tongue, but he accepted it at once and switched sides—Qing herself was surprised.

Her “plateau” speech was far more fluent than his, for one.

And the monk’s mangled state reinforced the plausibility; for the Zang, monks are the ruling stratum, so impersonation is the greatest inviolable crime—akin to high treason in the Middle Kingdom.

Thus the sight of a monk flailing limp, shattered limbs actually made the words more convincing.

Qing didn’t know any of that.

It worked; that’s enough.

“[There are more in his party; if they learn he’s been unmasked, they may try to silence you. Leave the house and hide away for a while.]”

“[B—but—]”

“[Right now. Before the pack of impostor man-eaters learns. And keep this quiet for at least three days. We don’t know how many more of them are about.]”

Crash—he hustled his family; they grabbed things in haste and fled.

Opening the door, he did tilt his head—was the door always hung so far off to the outer side?—but only for a blink.

Stopping someone from screaming is simple.

Punch a hole in that hollow between the collarbones; then all you get is rasping breath—no shout.

At Qing’s glance, Gyeon Pohee clamped a finger over the tracheal hole beneath the monk’s throat.

A guttural cry burst—but no one here would pity it.

He’d slaughtered three hamlets—unarmed commoners—like a dog.

“[Why’d you do it?]”

“[Kh— Traitors who forget their roots don’t deserve to breathe. They can’t even pronounce our speech properly anymore. Some of the truly mad even try to celebrate the Middle Kingdom’s Spring Festival when our New Year is far off yet.]”

Roughly what we’d guessed.

By the Tibetan reckoning, the new year starts in spring and ends in winter, unlike the Middle Kingdom.

Meaning by the Middle Kingdom calendar there’s still about a month and a half.

Qing didn’t know that far.

She only recalled anew the shattered lion mask and the people who lay dead beneath it.

It was obscene and jaw-dropping.

This land of Qinghai—over three hundred years ago the previous dynasty seized it, and the next inherited it as dynasties turned.

The Zang of Qinghai have lived as Middle Kingdom people for far more than three centuries.

Even so, the Zang we met on the Kunlun trip still kept their customs well.

The very language of the plateau still flowed—roots handed down from elders to children to their children for three centuries.

By the measure of my hometown?

It’s like some joke “Joseon” lot wearing traditional clothes storms in and shouts, “Western clothes, Western buildings? Rootless traitors!” and carries out a massacre.

“Pohee, this one doesn’t listen. Rip the breathing hole wider so he can’t even twitch his mouth.”

“Mm.”

I’d meant to ask how many Lama Monks there were, how many real masters among them, and whether the “traitor” meant Amukhablap.

But a fool with conviction is fearsome; history—what little of it I know—is full of idiots starting wars mumbling about past glory.

She ground his shoulder bones to gravel and booted his pelvis to splinters.

His air hissed violently through the slit-open windpipe; the way he writhed “from pain”—for such a piece of trash—was almost funny.

“[Live or die—don’t care. Thrash it out on your own. Better if you live crippled without limbs. If it were me, I’d bite my tongue and die. Oh, right—you’re the kind who sold the Buddha and your sect to live. Think you’ve got the guts for that?]”

The monk, who’d been glaring to kill, bared his teeth for show—stuck out his tongue, bit—snap.

Blood flooded, smearing his mouth; he forced a smile at Qing as if to say, How about that?

“[Are you stupid? Biting the tongue kills by blocking the airway. I already punched a hole in your throat. You think biting your tongue a bit will kill you now? I told you to do it and you actually did. Illiterate shit.]”

His face twisted.

Chuckling, Qing pressed her nail to his forehead and wrote letters.

Fake monk.

Satisfied, she looked at her work, then took the house essential—a straw rope—bound his waist, and caught the line in her hand with a snap.

“...! ...!”

He gaped; anyway, it’d be curses or begging.

“Let’s go. Fifteen left.”

“You mean to drag that along?”

“What, not drag him? We can show what happens if they pull this crap. And the enemy’s fifteen—toss in one casualty and at least one more is effectively out, right? Before that, as a hostage, he makes a fine shield.”

Peng Daesan’s brow twitched.

“I mean your dignity.”

“Ugh, ‘dignity,’ my ass. What dignity do I have? Do I even have any left to keep?”

“That’s true enough. Still—”

“Drop it. Even if I had such a thing, this isn’t the time. Officially twenty-one—this is when you get to rampage like a fool, no?”

“Most don’t use that as a shield. Hm. Shouldn’t you, too, at least pretend to dissuade her? She’s proposing to drag a broken-limbed enemy around the town.”

“No. Ruthlessness is also a method.”

“Huh? Why? Isn’t a hostage handy when the enemy’s many?”

Both women were raised in savage brutality; what’s wrong with this?

Sadly, there was only one person in the party with proper common sense. And that Tang—no, that woman—wouldn’t restrain; she’d probably go one better and offer to carry him herself.

Then the blabber—no.

Namgung—absolutely not.

Gongsun—she’d swallow any protest.

Peng Daesan ticked through the members of the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society and finally reached enlightenment.

Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society... is it really fine like this?